Aldwin moved to the edge of the low ring, his steps soundless against the hard bedrock. He carried no focus or staff.
Physical tools would shatter under the stress of his work, useless to a master whose internal power ran too thick for iron or wood.
He turned his sharp gaze to the twelve grey-robed practitioners stationed at the edges of the subterranean vault.
"Once we begin," Aldwin said, his voice flat and dry, "no one stops. No one speaks. You do not move a finger to wipe sweat from your eyes. Whatever comes up through the floor, whatever sound or stench fills this room, you hold your position until your lungs burst or I say otherwise."
The mages gave no verbal reply.
They bowed their heads in quiet unison, faces pale in the light of seven iron braziers. Rendered leviathan fat and crushed nightshade burned within the iron, fueling a smokeless blue-black fire that cast dark shadows against the damp stone walls.
